The Quiet Ways She Wants You

When She Wants

She turned the air conditioning down two degrees. No one in the meeting room noticed. The projector light lay across the back of her hand. She stared until her fingers went numb. Beside her, someone turned a page. The paper made a sound. She shifted. Her knee hit the table leg. She left it there.

After the meeting she went to the restroom. In the mirror, her lipstick was still there. Only the corners of her mouth were dry. She turned on the tap and ran water over her fingers. The water was cold. She pressed her hand to the back of her neck and held it there for three seconds. Then she dried her hands and went out.

In the elevator someone pressed seven. She pressed twelve. The doors closed. She leaned into the corner and watched the numbers jump. Her phone buzzed. She took it out. It was him. He said, "That place from yesterday. Are we still going on Wednesday?" She stared at the line. The elevator reached seven. The doors opened. No one got out. The doors closed again. She typed, "Yes." Deleted it. Typed, "Okay." Sent it. The elevator reached twelve. She stepped out, phone in hand, screen still lit.

At lunch she did not go to the cafeteria. She ate an apple at her desk. The peel came off in one long strip. She wound it around her finger, then let it go. At three she opened a shopping page. Looked at a dark green bra. Added it to the cart. Then looked at a black one. Closed the page. At four she went to the break room to make tea. Too many leaves. It was bitter. She took one sip and poured it out. Made it again.

After work she did not go straight home. She went to that shop. The dark green one was still in the window. She went in and touched the fabric. The clerk asked her size. She said she was just looking. When she came out, a paper bag hung from her hand. At home she put the bag on the bed and did not open it. She showered first. Water ran from her shoulders to her ankles. She stood there a long time. Turned off the water, dried her hair, looked at herself in the mirror. No smile. She held her own gaze. She put on her old pajamas.

The pajamas were cotton, washed many times. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the bag. The dark green one. The tag was still on. She held it, then put it down. Picked up her phone and opened his chat. Typed, "What time on Wednesday?" Sent. He replied in seconds, "Seven." She typed, "Okay." Then she threw the phone to the foot of the bed and lay down. A thin crack ran from the light fixture to the corner of the ceiling. She looked at it for a long time.

That night she dreamed. In the dream someone held her from behind, a hand on her lower belly. She woke with the blanket twisted around her legs and a thin layer of sweat on her skin. She washed the sheets and hung them on the balcony. Before she left she glanced at them. The sheets swelled in the wind, the shape of a person lying on their side.

Wednesday she got up earlier than usual. She picked the dark green one. Put it on. Took it off. Changed into an ordinary one. Before leaving she changed back. At the office she kept checking the time. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. She skipped lunch. At three she ate a biscuit. At five she went to the restroom to touch up her lipstick. At six she packed her things. At six twenty she was at the restaurant. He had not arrived. She sat down and ordered water. A water stain ringed the glass. She rubbed it away with her thumb. Then rubbed it again.

He came. Sat down. They ordered. They talked. Work, a mutual acquaintance, a movie that had just come out. She laughed once. He laughed too. Her hand rested on the table, a hand's width from his. He stayed still. She did too. Under the table her knee touched his. She didn't pull back. He didn't either. They kept talking about the movie. Her voice was half a note lower than usual. She asked him, "Do you live alone?" He said yes. She said oh. Drank some water.

After dinner he said he would walk her home. She said okay. On the way they walked side by side. Her arm brushed his arm. She didn't dodge or lean in. At her building she said she was home. He said okay. She stood for two seconds. He said, "Wednesday again?" She said yes. He looked at her. His lips moved. She waited for him to speak. He reached into his pocket and took out a strip of stomach medicine. "Almost forgot," he said. "You said your stomach hurt last time." She took it. The foil crackled once in her hand. She said thank you. He said mm. She turned and went upstairs.

Upstairs she left the light off. She sat on the sofa, phone on her knees. The screen went dark, then lit. No new message. She went to shower. Halfway through she squatted down, water hitting her back. No tears. She only squatted there for a while. Then she stood up, turned off the water, dried herself, put on the old pajamas, and lay down.

The next day she washed the dark green one. Hung it on the balcony. Next to it were the sheets from last week. The wind blew them together. She looked once, then went to work.

On the subway she saw another person with a scar on their wrist. She didn't look twice. At the office she opened the document and typed three lines. She left them there. She picked up her phone and opened his chat. Typed, "Took the stomach medicine." Sent. He replied, "Mm." She put the phone down. Her fingers tapped the edge of the desk twice. Then she opened the calendar and looked at next Wednesday. Closed it. Opened it. Closed it again.